


Comfort Food

by NotPersephone



Series: Count and Countess Lecter [11]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, F/M, and I love it, happy marrieds, they are so perfect together it's disgusting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 01:25:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14557827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: “Who taught you how to cook, Hannibal?”Bedelia has never considered it before; food and cooking has played an important role in Hannibal’s life for various reasons, but this seemed like a question no one has asked him.





	Comfort Food

“I do not like my eggs to be overcooked, Hannibal.”

Bedelia gazes across the kitchen counter at the pan of eggs, sizzling quietly over low heat.

“I am aware of that,” Hannibal pauses in a middle of halving freshly baked croissants and looks up at her with a smile, “They won’t be,” he gives the pan a single glance before returning to the task at hand.

Bedelia’s eyes narrow, she puts down her unfinished cup of coffee and stands up, the blue silk of her robe gliding off the chair like water. She approaches the stove, the stone floor cold under her bare feet, and removes the pan from the burner. Hannibal watches without a word, before joining her and placing two plates with empty croissant shells at ready next to the stove.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asks, standing closely behind her, her small frame fitting perfectly against his larger one, her back pressed to his naked chest.

“I trust you to listen to me,” Bedelia responds coolly and gently shakes the pan back and forth, watching as the eggs gather in yellow clumps.

Hannibal chuckles and his hand reaches over to add salmon to the dish while his other arm sneaks around Bedelia’s waist, either a way of keeping her close or ensuring she won’t interfere again, probably a bit of both. He takes a fork and gently lifts the eggs, before turning them out onto the halved pastries.

Still in his embrace, Bedelia’s fingers snatch a bit of paprika powder and she sprinkles it over the eggs in an act of culinary defiance. Hannibal reciprocates by grazing his teeth over her exposed neck.

“You do not enjoy me being a sous chef, do you?” she sighs as his lips press against her skin.

“Chef, always. Sous, _never_ ,” his breath feels like a hot caress as his mouth moves to her collarbone and his hand slides lower.

“Breakfast first,” she responds firmly, ignoring his fingers slipping beneath her robe.

“My point proven,” Hannibal concludes, kissing her one last time before releasing her from his arms with obvious reluctance.

“Bon Appetit,” he takes the plate and presents it with a finesse of a seasoned waiter

Bedelia gives him an approving half smile.

 

“Who taught you how to cook, Hannibal?”

The question has materialized in her mind suddenly as she watches him slice a roasted wild duck. Sharp knife sinks into lush meat without hesitation and perfect cuts appear on a plate, garnished with black quinoa and macadamia salad. The smell of cloves and plums suffuses the evening air around them; the warm summer weather has invited them to enjoy their dinner in the garden. The steam from the dish slowly rises against the velvet sky and the candle flames flicker playfully, teased by a gentle breeze.

Bedelia has never considered it before; food and cooking has played an important role in Hannibal’s life for _various_ reasons, but this seemed like a question no one has asked him.

Hannibal tops the plate with roasted plum sauce, gleaming purple matching the last bruise of dusk, and sets it down in front of Bedelia. She can see the lines on his forehead, betraying deep thought, confirming her suspicions. He takes a seat opposite her, his pensive face faintly illuminated by the radiance coming from the castle’s windows.

“No one,” he finally responds, his eyes resting on her, and Bedelia puts her fork down, waiting for him to continue. He looks as confused by his answer as she is; the absence of a dramatic origin story has taken them both by surprise.

“I was always very peculiar about what I ate. And the best way to ensure the quality was to prepare it myself,” he adds after a moment.

“As they say, practice makes perfect,” Bedelia comments with a smile, looking at the elaborate table setting and sinking her teeth into succulent meat.

Hannibal smiles back and reaches out to stroke her hand. The tree leaves in the forest whisper quietly, as they continue their dinner, no ghosts of the past disturbing their serenity.

 

“My mother used to cook.”

Much later that night, the silence of the bedroom is broken by Hannibal’s voice. The moon shines brightly, high in the cloudless sky, bathing their bed in a silver aura.

Bedelia turns at the sound of his words and finds him looking at the ceiling in an inaudible recollection; their earlier conversation must have caused the memories in his mind to rise from their slumber, the ones that are buried deep and take longer to resurface. She nestles closer to him, resting her chin on his chest.

“She did not have too, of course, being a Countess, but she enjoyed helping out in a kitchen,” he continues, and his fingers begin to brush Bedelia’s hair absentmindedly.

“There was one meal she used to prepare herself. An Italian dish, she always stayed true to her roots. I think it was comforting to her when she felt nostalgia for her home country.”

“What was it?” Bedelia asks.

“Cacciatore. Chicken with onion, herbs, and sweet potatoes. She used to serve it with rosemary bread. The smell was intoxicating,” Hannibal smiles at the memory and Bedelia can see it clearly, a young boy watching his mother cook with innocent fascination.

“Did you ever make it yourself?” she enquires, and her question is met with another pause.

“No,” Hannibal seems once again surprised by his own admission. But Bedelia is not. The dishes he prepared in honour of his family were always coated in a layer of loss and blood. This was not. It was an untainted moment of happiness.

Her hand moves to caress his cheek as she ponders his words. She has always been a keeper of his memories and she is happy they are no longer haunting ones.

He kisses her fingers as sleep slowly slips between them. Bedelia presses her cheek against his chest, finding her favourite spot with ease, and Hannibal’s arms encircle her as they both drift into a peaceful slumber.

 

“Are you sure you will be all right?” Hannibal puts on his jacket and gazes at his wife with unnecessary worry.

“I will be _fine_ , Hannibal,” she steps closer to him, adjusting his tie.

“Perhaps you would like to accompany me?” he insists. Irritated with the lack of results, Hannibal is travelling to the capital to inspect the progress of the restoration of one of their crystal chandeliers.

“I have something to occupy myself with. I can manage to be alone. _For one day_ ,” she adds, putting a gentle emphasis on the last part. Bedelia would not openly admit to missing him, but she could make it known in other ways.

And she indeed has plans.

She pulls at his tie, making him lean forward so she can kiss him, then walks him down to the front door, watching his car drive away towards the main gate.

Bedelia spends the morning horse riding, as always, but, upon return, she makes her way to the kitchen.

The lights come to life by a flick of a switch and Bedelia stares at the polished wood and shining silver, all clean and pristine. The unoccupied space feels somehow lonely; despite her frequently assisting him and them spending many _pleasurable_ moments here, this will always be Hannibal’s space. And Bedelia does not mind in the slightest, but today she has a culinary project of her own.

Ever since Hannibal had told her about his mother’s dish, she secretly wished to prepare it for him. Unrevealed online recipe searches and ensuring the pantry has all the necessary components (it _always_ does), the only thing she was missing was an opportune moment. And that has presented itself today.

She gathers the ingredients on the counter and looks at them hesitantly; although cooking is not her speciality, she has always been able to prepare a decent dish, yet she feels suddenly nervous. Whether it is the idea of facing Hannibal’s memory or merely his skills, she does not know.

Taking a deep breath, she wraps an apron around her waist and approaches the counter with silent resolve. Bedelia Du Maurier is not known to shy away from a challenge after all.

As the ingredients begin to disappear from the plates and take their place in the composition, Bedelia starts to gain more confidence. She mixes the dough with a wooden spoon, watching it form and the scent of rosemary fills the space, just like in Hannibal’s recollection. The vegetables cook on the stove, simmering softly with a delighted bubble.

Bedelia has never found much joy in food preparation, but now, as she pours wine over the cooking chicken, she must admit to herself that this is a surprisingly satisfying endeavour. Yet another proof of Hannibal’s unintentional influence.

Once the stew is ready and the bread cools on the table, Bedelia cleans the kitchen and observes the result of her efforts with pride. Hopefully, it will live up to Hannibal’s expectations too.

 

Sitting in the library with a book on her lap, she hears the sound of the door opening in the distance. It is followed by decisive footsteps and soon firm lips press a kiss on her forehead as Hannibal stands behind the sofa.

“Welcome back. How was your day?” she turns her head to look at him with a soft smile.

“It was satisfactory,” he steps around to take a seat next to Bedelia, putting her feet on his lap, “But the repair has been delayed by another week. Not the service I was expecting. How was your day?” he asks in turn, gently stroking her skin.

“Productive,” she responds enigmatically, making Hannibal’s eyebrow lift in puzzlement, “I hope you are famished.”

“ _Always_ ,” Hannibal purrs and his hand moves up, caressing her leg.

“I meant _actual_ food,” Bedelia retorts and the hand stops at once.

“Oh, I will prepare something shortly.”

“There is no need,” she explains with a satisfied stare.

“Did you cook?” Hannibal’s face lights up in a surprised delight, “I am definitely hungry now.”

“You might not like it,” she cautions, but he merely brushes her words away with a wave of a hand.

“Lead the way,” his mouth whispers against hers as he leans forward to kiss her.

 

Bedelia guides Hannibal to the downstairs dining room where a set table already awaits them. He stops in the doorway, smiling at the pleasant aroma of rosemary. Still he does not know what she has prepared until he sees the dishes on the table; a metal pot with the stew and slices of bread on a board next to it.

“Is it…cacciatore?” he asks bluntly, looking at the setting in disbelief.

“It is,” Bedelia responds and takes a bowl to pour the stew and sets it down on the plate.

Hannibal takes a seat, as she pours them both a glass of wine. Yet the vintage is lost on him as he continues to stare at her; his glossy eyes are full of adoration, so fiery in their intensity, it makes her blush.

“I am afraid it won’t be as good as you remember,” she sits down opposite Hannibal, her cheeks still burning, and watches with certain restlessness as he examines the dish in front of him.

He inhales deeply, savouring the smell of tomatoes and herbs; he takes a piece of bread, visibly enjoying it fresh softness and dips it into the sauce. He bites into it with gusto and swallows slowly.

“You are right. It does not taste as I remembered,” he comments while sinking his fork into a tender chicken piece, “It tastes better,” he takes another bite and smiles in delight.

Bedelia smiles too, happy to see him enjoy it, and starts tasting it herself.

“I can’t believe you did this for me,” Hannibal speaks upon clearing his plate.

“You have always trusted me with your memories. And spent years reliving the traumatic ones. I wanted to bring one of your happy memories back to life,” she explains, sipping on her wine.

Hannibal falls suddenly serious, his eyes peering into hers once more.

“But you have already brought me back to life. _All of me_ ,” he states firmly, and the heat advances under Bedelia’s skin afresh, her heart fluttering unexpectedly against her rib cage.

“But this is a very fitting dish for you,” he adds with a playful grin while refilling his plate.

“How so?”

“Cacciatore means hunter in Italian,” he inclines his head meaningfully in her direction before reaching for the wine, “ _To my huntress_ ,” he lifts his glass in a toast and Bedelia raises hers in response, grinning.

She suddenly realises it was never really about reviving Hannibal’s memory, only about creating new ones. Together.

**Author's Note:**

> For an anon tumblr prompt and electric-couple prompt as well.  
> There is nothing I love more than these sneak peaks into their everyday life. Every scene can be treated as a separate vignette, creating a picture of their life together; the spin off we all need and deserve.


End file.
